The Eighth Hour
by themusespeaks
Summary: Cardverse AU. What kind of King is immured within the walls of his own castle? Confused and angry and yearning for lands beyond, Alfred F. Jones, rightful heir to the throne, sets out for his own freedom despite his brother's constant warnings and crosses paths with one of most wanted criminals in all of Spades, Arthur Kirkland. USUK.


**Notes: **This chapter is more of prologue than anything else, a tad long, but necessary. As for some OC's, please bear with them just for this chapter; don't worry, the main characters will appear here too, of course Once again, pairing is USUK because that's how I roll.

* * *

**The Eighth Hour**

_Prologue_

_**The great Clock of Spades loomed up**_ from the darkness as if to accuse the night, its face alit like an ancillary moon and its glow permeating through the fog that climbed and roiled and swam to immure it. Below, a scuffle of people were swarming from the houses and kitchens and mines and out of whatever hole they came from, out into the streets at night to pool before the imposing tower, Ones, Eights, everyone in-between, people from all walks of life. Every single face was turned to the hands of the clock. Waiting. Watching.

Crafted by the first King and Queen of Spades, this was no ordinary clock tower. It was the only one of its kind, out of all the four kingdoms, that did not signal time, and instead, the undulating rise and fall of a reign, its gears and cogs spinning and sputtering on their interminable magic. The hour hand represented the king, the minute hand- the Queen, and the second hand- the Jack. A minute hand nearing consummation to its revolution meant the end of the Queen's reign, be it by murder or natural death, an insurgent uprising, perhaps, that plucked her from her throne. It was Fate himself, bringing out his cruel and irreversible judgment by God's final injunction. And no one could say otherwise, for the pieces always fell accordingly to how they were predicted to lay out.

A huge eagle swooped high above the gathering mass of onlookers, its great wings carving through the fog with a shrill, haunting cry, before dropping into a sharp dive and promptly rising up again, circling the tower like it was a precious nest to be guarded, protected. For a long moment the hands on the great Spade lay stock-still, frozen, just like it had been throughout all the past peaceful years, before the threatening shadow of war had appeared, before the sickness had wormed its way unnoticed into the palace gates and had seeped into the King's lungs. The hour hand was still, sixteen strikes short of a complete circle, and it would be easy to think it would stay that way, unmoving for all the years to come, until it had began ticking away less than a week ago, marking off the days before their beloved King Victor, seventh to the throne, would cease his monarchy to the Queen.

But why? That was what everybody wanted to know. Their King was an honorable, upright man. Spades had bloomed like a spring flower under his hands.

(And regrettably there was nothing they could do, nothing but wonder, for the Clock's verdict was never, ever denied.)

The spell broke and the Clock of Spades began to glow, brighter and brighter into a dazzling white, as thought the very sun was buried beneath its shell; within, its gears whirled frantically, grinding, clanging as each segment slid into place with a low, weary exhale, and then with a dreadful finality the hour hand struck four with a plangent _ding_, the sound ironically rhapsodic for all it meant, thundering through the streets and houses and its people, caught in the wind and ricocheting back and forth from every corner in the kingdom.

Below, the crowd broke out in low, fast muttering. There was a division amongst them, a flagrant difference in response; there were the pale men and wide-eyed mothers who pulled their children to their sides, they in turn who clutched their skirts, seeking comfort and security. And then there were the young men, all puffed up chests and sly smiles, whose excited murmurs had erupted into a kind of irrepressible furor as the bright light faded from the tower.

It was the Quarter Hour.

-o-

The forest was always awakened at this particular hour, alive with the buzz and crawl of insects and prey, trees stretching and yawning and creeping as the wind ululated through the gaps to bleed into the cacophony of the night. There were trolls here, ten of them, carrion beasts gathered around a bright orange fire as they drank and sang beneath the darkness, the air filling with boisterous laughter. Tonight the forest was theirs, and they intended to make the most of it before morning came and those vile humans began trudging back into their territory to claim the woods.

They were erupting into another song when the fire sputtered, the sound like beating wings, flames waning and wilting until it died; a great plume of smoke coiled upwards from the embers in escape. The singing ceased. Someone asked in guttural tones who put out the fire. They looked at each other to find the culprit, but all of them had that same look of confusion on their ghastly faces. Then, without warning, the fire roared to life once again, brighter and hotter like a great blue flower in bloom, startling the beasts hovering the nearest as they fell on their backs in sheer terror. The flames began to shift, slowly taking form of a woman's torso, until finally the Queen of Spade's illusion steadied, like a mirage forever entombed within its jacket of flames.

The beasts fell silent. The entire forest seemed to shrink back at the presence of such power. Her eyes, dark and scorching, scanned the area before landing on the figure lying before her, prone on the forest floor. "_You, troll," _The edges of her dress danced as she spoke, rustling as though the wind had passed, but her blonde locks were unsettled around her shoulders. The creature addressed shakily rose to his feet, looking at her boldly, albeit unwillingly. Seeing this, the edges of her mouth quirked into an ensorceling smile.

"_I have a task for all of you,"_ she said sweetly, betraying the poison in her eyes. _"It must be done quickly. The Clock has struck. The Quarter Hour is finally upon us, or haven't you heard? My King is an impatient man, and will begin the search tomorrow morning, without fail."_ Here, the embers crackled, the flares darkening. The trolls took one slow step away. _"You see, I cannot allow that to happen. I would stop it myself, however it is tradition, and my people will start to question. If the next King is found, together with his Queen, then I am to step down along with my king, replaced by an impotent _weakling, _my crown, _gone_—"_Her voice was rising as she spoke, almost manic, before she caught herself, shoulders deflating as her face lit up with that wonderfully artful smile once again. _"Now. Here is where I am needing your assistance."_

"Anything," the troll croaked, before adding; "'Yer Majesty."

Another smile. The fire grew hot. _"Find them. You will know them by their marks,"_ As she said this, her own mark glittered, a small spade on the creamy expanse of her neck, her royal symbol of convoluted whorls and intricate design, smoldering ice-blue in the dark. _"Tonight the King has lifted their seals, and they shall glow like the moon. It will not be difficult to find. And when you find them, kill them. Do you understand, troll?"_

He nodded.

The Queen's expression changed dramatically, her hand reaching up to cover her pink mouth as she let loose a delighted giggle, like a thrilled little girl. _"See, I knew you weren't such horrid creatures,"_ she said, calming down, as a group of trolls bared their teeth in the shadows, unseen. _"And here I was thinking I would be met with violence. The last group displayed such hostility, really, it was quite entertaining. Oh, silly me- I wouldn't want you think me selfish, now, would I?" _Her eyes gleamed powerfully. _"Finish the task quickly, and you can be sure to be rewarded. Two hundred pieces of gold, what do you say?"_

The dark atmosphere vanished instantly at that, tension lifting from every face as they broke into wide grins, cracked lips curling back to reveal rotten teeth as black as tar.

"_I'm feeling rather generous today. How about . . . "_she trailed off, regaling, holding her audience in her spell. A wicked smile spread her lips. _"Oh, yes. You must be hungry, correct? Then I shall deny you no longer. Go, and tell everyone of your kind that the Queen of Spades has prepared a grand banquet. I give you my consent. Tonight, you shall feast on the flesh of Royals!"_

The beasts gave a harsh cry, elated, beating their chests in agreement. Tonight was theirs, indeed.

The smile on the Queen's face dropped abruptly, head whipping back behind her, eyebrows furrowed. Then, she turned back towards them, voice serious all at once. _"My husband is asking for me. Make haste now, you must find them before sunrise. As I have promised, you may do whatever it is you would like to do with them, once found. I must depart, before my absence is noticed."_

The flames withered, and she was gone.

-o-

The fiacre jolted and swayed uncomfortably all throughout its steep ascent, wheels squealing louder than the horses themselves as they struggled to keep their balance; every now and then they staggered, hooves making a wild scramble against the slick earth before the wind pushed them off the edge of the cliff to plunge into the freezing ocean below, and Arthur, pressed rather tightly between his two older brothers, was asleep, oblivious to it all.

He was dreaming. He dreamt of everything and nothing, cupcakes, fairy dust, rolling pins, the new white pearl of a house his mother had insisted on moving into, which, after much incessant yammer, his father had finally relented to; now, after just a week, they had left their old home in the county of Wales and had miraculously managed to squeeze all six of them inside this old moldy carriage, half of their luggage shoved into the space under their seats and the other literally beneath them. He dreamt of their new house, the wonderful view his mother promised to be the best in all of Spades, the cake she would make the week after in celebration of his twelfth birthday, and the dark patch of soil where he would plant the loveliest garden, and _oh_, what a garden it would be—

There was a hard jolt, and the dream began to fade in color, the bright roses in his hands turning pink, and then gray, until he was seeing nothing but darkness. Someone was shouting, tugging at his shirt, his arm, and then a pressing sensation of falling overwhelmed him until finally his green eyes snapped open, arms instinctively out in front of him to break his fall, even in the total gloom. _Soil_, was the first thing his mind registered, breathing in the miasma, his eyes not quite adjusting to the darkness. A thought wasn't even allowed to form in his head when a hand grabbed him roughly by the elbows and hauled him to his feet, tugging him straight ahead into nowhere.

"Arthur, Arthur, it's time to wake up," The voice belonged to his Father's, that much Arthur knew, but the urgency in his voice was all but alien to his ears.

"Are we here?" he asked, stumbling along, his ankles sliding against the dirt and scraping against what he realized was trees. They were in a forest. Frowning; "Father, why are we—?"

"_Shhh!"_

Arthur's mouth snapped shut. There was definitely something wrong. Fully awake now, he let himself be dragged ahead, his left arm aching where his father's hand was digging into the flesh there, firm and wild and unrelenting. The patch of skin between his shoulder blades felt itchy, like a spider was flexing its legs right over the cloth, and he swatted at it with his free hand. Nothing. There was a rustle behind him, a pitter-patter of footsteps, and he heard the familiar voices of his mother and brothers.

"I'll take Arthur," he felt her ragged breath at the top of his hair, her hand slipping around his arm with a grip as white-knuckled as his Father's. His three older brothers emerged to his right, and when they stepped into the shaft of moonlight streaming from the forest canopy, he saw the unadulterated coil of fear in their eyes, and Arthur shivered, realizing they were looking at _him_.

"What's happening—"

"Mother—"

"But, Elena—"

"Go, love, _go_. Take the boys. We'll be fine," she gave a watery smile, walking backwards in the opposite direction, taking Arthur with her. _"Go!"_

And then they were running, a million of his questions unanswered as they weaved through the woods, fronds whipping against his face like arms reaching out towards him, covering his eyes, holding him back . . . his shoe was caught between a crawling root, but his mother paid it no heed, propelling him forwards until he had to leave it behind, sock now plunging into puddle after puddle of mud and filth.

The prickling in his back would not go away, and he twisted his arm to rake his fingers over it, again and again, but relief wouldn't come as this only seemed to intensify the sensation. They capered up over a large boulder, and Arthur was about to snake a hand beneath all the layers of his clothing when his mother slapped it away.

"But Mother," Arthur whined as they paused momentarily. "It feels rather strange…"

His mother merely smiled, although it was difficult to tell if it was truly a smile or a grimace in the dark of night. Hastily, she untied the cloak from her neck and draped it around his shoulders, pulling tight. "Keep it close. We'll be fine, alright? I—"

Whatever she was about to say was interrupted with a bloodcurdling growl, startlingly close behind. They both froze, his mother's hand clamped around his shoulders, and Arthur's eyes tilted to the side to catch one horrifying glimpse of the beast before his mother took off again, lurching him forward just in time before a claw grappled the air where his torso had been.

-o-

"Do you hear that? Matt, hey, _do_ you?"

Matthew sighed, hands pausing over a pile of wood and dried branches to regard his twin, who had his hands clutched in a tight white ball on the edge of his shirt. "What?"

Alfred bit his lip, eyes comically darting to and fro. There was silence as Matthew blankly stared at the frightened boy; then, his voice dropping to a panicked whisper, _"That."_

Matthew set the flint down, crossed his legs on the floor, and listened.

And listened.

"Wind," Matthew remarked blandly. And that was what it was; a light wind whistling through the trees, moaning through the chinks in the wall of their humble abode.

A rather strong gust swept through them, rustling the grass and groaning when it pushed against the shed. Whimpering, Alfred scuttled closer. _"Hear it? It's—"_

"The wind, Al, just the wind," he smiled wearily and patted him on the head, bringing his attention back to the untended fire and very blatantly ignoring him as Alfred continued to clutch at his shirt like a child. He chuckled. "Ever since we heard the ding, you've been acting like all these ghosts would start popping up everywhere."

"Matt," he began impatiently after a moment, after the wind finally died down. "Dinner done yet? I'm hungry."

"Coming, coming."

"What're we having tonight?"

A pause. "Pigeon." Another pause. "And cheese."

Alfred made a face. "Ew, again?"

"Yes, Al, but if you'll keep complaining I might as well burn your dinner and leave it for the crows," Matthew glared at him over his shoulder.

"You wouldn't," Alfred smiled in challenge, lying back on the grass with his arms crossed behind his head.

"Yes I will."

"Ha! Go ahead and try then."

Matthew rolled his eyes, turning back to face the fire and checked if their dinner _was_ truly burning. It wasn't, and for a few blissful minutes Matthew hummed to himself, throwing a smooth pebble back and forth between his hands, thoroughly enjoying the sweet-smelling breeze and this rare modicum of silence Alfred allowed him to have before it was interrupted once again. And it was.

"Matt."

_Damn it_, he thought, left hand gloved around the pebble, wanting to snap at his twin, but then realized he couldn't really bring himself to. _"What?"_He hissed instead.

He expected some sort of random, obnoxious response to rile him up, but Alfred was silent behind him. Strange. The fire crackled, and he heard him slowly sit up, a rustle of clothing, followed a sharp intake of breath.

"Matt," He sounded scared now, unsure, voice ending in an unusually high whisper.

He couldn't help it. He turned to face him.

The rock dropped into pit of the flames.

-o-

Arthur was weeping now, a bedraggled mess of salty tears as they parted ways, his mother giving him one last desperate kiss on the head before shoving him in the other direction as she disappeared in the darkness, shouting incoherently in a hopeless attempt to lead the creatures away from his tail.

And so he ran. He ran and ran, blindly groping his way across the crawling forest floor that seemed to open up beneath him, clinging onto his ankles so that he stumbled and scraped his knees bloody, but he had to get up, had to keep moving . . . A sharp cry reverberated through the forest and his blood ran cold – _his mother, oh God, his mother, what was happening – _and then he heard it again, the low growling . . . there was a horde of them now, the ground shuddering as they lumbered through the woods with unnatural ease, closer, closer . . . Arthur's breath caught; there, in the distance, he could see the fracture that led to the edge of the growth, moonlight spiking through, beyond unknown, but he was already sprinting ahead, pushing his weary legs against the carpet, almost there—

He felt clawed fingers tear through his back, breaking skin just as he plunged out and onto the side of the road, heard the enraged growl and the flapping of his cloak as it was flung to the ground like refuse.

"_It's 'im!"_

He stopped his body just in time as the ground gave way to nothing, and Arthur's heart dropped.

The edge of the cliff.

There was no way out. Beyond, the world opened its great maw before him, nowhere to go but the churning ocean beneath, crashing hopelessly against jagged rock.

Shivering, he turned around and was suddenly looking into the yellow eyes of five ravenous trolls, their coarse green hides as hard as stone, their snouts slicked bright red.

They reached forward, and Arthur slipped.

-o-

The Royal Courtyard was a beautiful thing at this time of day, glittering with its opulence as washed-out sunlight filtered through the gas-blue windows and swathed the room with its brilliance, a cincture of bright flowers twisting round its crown. The great doors were flung open, welcoming, allowing more radiance to seep in, each tiled spade twinkling where the light touched. The only thing that seemed rather out-of-place was the King's hacking cough. It was a harrowing sound, causing the servants and especially the Jack to frown and come rushing to his side when the room trembled with it.

"My dear King," The Queen began, rubbing soothing circles around his back as his face turned blue. "Must we carry on with this? You must rest. I doubt our champions will arrive today. Regardless, let me do this for you."

"'Tis, true, my lord," the Jack, a thin, sallow-faced man, piped in. "Have you heard? There has been news of an attack on the villages all over the kingdom. Trolls, they say. Trolls!"

"Nonsense," The King waved his hand to dismiss the idea once the color returned to his face. "A lot of men have come today, and though we haven't found them yet, we must continue. If they do not come to us, then we shall come to them. It is my duty, _my last_, if you must, and I _shall_ find the next royals." Another rasping cough. He pushed away the glass of water thrust before his face. "Look," he said, brightening, and gestured at the doorway. "More hopefuls."

Two people were approaching the throne. They were a couple it seemed, a girl and boy, both Twos and fresh as youth, their hands clasped together.

He bowed before him, and the girl followed suit, sweeping him a low and graceful curtsy and came up with delicate smile. _David and Amber_, they replied deferentially, once they were asked their names. They straightened, and the King's eyes were immediately drawn to the young man's cheek, and his eyes widened. There was the mark, the royal mark of the King, the dark spade gleaming vividly, powerfully.

The King motioned for them to come closer. Flashing the boy an encouraging smile, he squinted at the mark, rubbing thoughtfully at the thicket of curls by his neck. He left his throne and circled him, stepping quietly, steadily, and the brunette seemed to be shrinking under inspection. When he was before them again, he paused, smiling.

"This is a great sign," The King said deeply, expression vague. His hand hovered over the brand. "The cheek. Signifies openness, friendliness, audacity. A certain… _charm_."

The girl giggled, the man slightly puffing up his chest.

Beside the King's throne, the Jack smirked; the Queen's face was blank.

But the King looked unimpressed. "A formidable weapon, I must say. However," his thumb traced the outline of the spade, feeling the edge lift and slide beneath his fingernail. He saw the dawning realization in the boy's eyes, the rudiments of panic, and before he could do anything the King flicked his wrist back, peeling the infernal hoax with a stinging _riiiip_. "It may also signify," he continued, even as youth gave a tiny whimper of pain, hand instinctively cupping the abused flesh, his companion looking panicked. He bore his eyes into the boy's brown ones, fierce and hard; "a double-crosser, a cheat, and a liar. A king destined to poison his kingdom and watch it crumble before his very eyes."

He held their gazes for a long moment, and then turned to the redheaded young woman, all trace of fury suddenly dissipating.

"And what about you, my dear child?" he prompted, the question only for show.

The girl shook her head, hand reaching up to cover something on her upper arm. Something shining. The King had a feeling he knew what it was. "N-nothing, my King," her voice trembled, and she curtsied once more, both of them turning to flee the palace, gone as quickly as they came.

"See, I warned you," The Queen said with a self-satisfied smirk.

With a weary sigh, the King settled back into his throne in a disgraceful heap. Almost immediately, his body racked with terrible coughs, as though the entire fiasco itself caused it to return in full blow. "Children these days," he wheezed, his Jack fussing beside him. "I may be old, but I am far from a fool. Do they think me their king for nothing? My beautiful Queen," he sighed, and cupped her face between pudgy fingers. "You are as lovely as the day when we were brought to each other. If this search fails, and- and when I- when I'm gone, would you take my place and take care of the kingdom?"

"Of course, dearest," she squeezed his hands, smile glinting. "Of course."

Whatever romantic kiss they were about to share was to be suspended for the moment, as two other boys were entering the courtyard. Twins, the King observed as they neared, both blonde and blue-eyed, both wearing the same spectacles and the same grimy, tattered rags. Farmers, he presumed. Or miners. And exceptionally young at that.

The boy with the shorter hair was moaning in delight at everything he laid his eyes on. _"Wow,"_ he exclaimed, at the elaborate walls. _"Wow,"_ he repeated, at the crystal flooring that gleamed like embedded pendants. _"Wow,"_ he said once more, once they were before the two thrones, his wide innocent eyes on the lovely Queen of Spades.

His brother stepped on his foot.

The King chuckled to himself as the boy cried with pain and pouted.

As if only now remembering where they were, they both hastily dropped to their scabby knees, hands splayed on either side of them, crying simultaneously, "Your Majesties!"

The King was silent for a moment, clearly astounded by such a passionate display of reverence. He glanced at his Queen and found her in a similar state. The Jack thought it was hilarious.

He gestured for them to rise, and the boy on his left shot up with a face-splitting smile, the other one getting to his feet much more reluctantly.

"I'm the King of Spades!" He suddenly announced, chin tilted high, and the assurance of it rolling of his body in waves. His brother shot him a look.

"I'm sorry, my King, my brother, he- he seems to think… "He trailed off, or rather, nobody could actually hear what he was saying anymore, the rest lost in barely audible whispers. "…and so we- we surely _must've_ been mistaken."

"Mattie!" his twin groaned, in the petulant tone of a child. "I _am_ the King. You saw it, it's true!"

"Do you have proof?" The Queen suddenly said, bright eyes narrowed at him.

'Mattie' attempted to pull his brother back, but it was no avail; with a sickly confidence, he drew closer, hands curling around the collar of his shirt and peeling back, baring sun-baked skin and collarbone. Out of all the fake brands they saw throughout the day, this was probably the worst. It was a scar, nothing but a pallid splotch of abraded skin, stretched tight over the left side of his chest, right over his heart. It could have easily been mistaken for the Royal Mark, but by closer inspection it only resembled it by smidge. A bystander would call it a mushroom; Royalty would call it a fraud.

The Queen let her head lay back against the rest, like a turtle coiling back its neck, clearly bored. The Jack sighed, disappointed. The boy had looked so promising. He stood there, chest still bared, waiting expectantly for their verdict.

"I'm sorry, boy, but I'm afraid you're brother's right," The Queen said blandly, cradling her face on her open palm. "Sorry." She didn't sound sorry at all.

"Wait."

The Queen looked up. The King was leaning forwards, still engrossed in the stupid patch of skin. She tried to smile. "Dearest, please—"

But the King wasn't listening to her anymore. There was something about the boy, something… different. He reached out, and without really thinking, pressed his finger against the scar.

Nothing happened.

He took his hand back, a strange feeling of frustration settling on his shoulders. The boy's face fell, and he stuttered something about not understanding, his brother's arm snaking around his shoulders in comfort.

And then something happened.

The King felt it first: his own mark was burning. He lifted the back of his hand to his face and saw it alight. This rarely ever happened. Then, he turned his eyes to the young man, his eyes wide, and he saw it, saw the vibrant glow of the spade where the scar used to be, its edges flawless and stark against his skin, a web of dotted jewels and labyrinthine coils writhing like blue stars, brilliantly, truly, undeniably – the King's Mark.

His brother's arm fell slack around his sides, and as he took a step back the King took a step forward, reaching out with the trembling fingers to clasp the boy's shoulders. "We have found the King," he said softly, quite stunned with the situation; immediately every servant who saw and was within hearing dropped to their knees.

"What is the meaning of this?" He heard the Queen rising from her seat behind him, voice trembling and angry and wrong.

"We have found the King," he repeated, tilting the boy's face to meet his eyes. "Although why the mark has taken a different form, I haven't the slightest idea." And then he was laughing, wrapping the boy to himself and patting his back. "How old are you, boy?"

"Ten," he chirped, face flushed and, not quite knowing what to do with himself - now that he was King, he was actually _King_ – he grabbed his brother and swung him around and around until he begged him to stop. "I'm King, Matt, can you believe it?" He whispered, excitement uncontainable. "I'm _King!_"

"But unless we find the Queen, you will stay ineligible for the throne," The Queen remarked brusquely, and she swept up her skirts and turned to leave.

The King waved her off. "Yes, yes, of course." He smiled warmly. "Now, what is your name?"

The boy grinned. "Alfred F. Jones."

-o-

The fire snapped, and the trolls staggered back as flames sprang up and flared towards them. "We're sorry, we're sorry! It wa' a mistake, we didn't—"

"_You useless fools,"_ the flames hissed. _"I thought my instructions were clear."_

"Yes, it was yer Majesty, but we didn't see the kid, if he had it, then we woulda killed him, for sure! Just please, please don't—"

"_Do not grovel, troll, it is unsightly."_ The embers crackled. _"But the other one, is he disposed, can you promise me that?"_

"Yes, yes!" All of them cried, heads nodding feverishly in unison. One of them even made a show of patting his belly. "Dead! Gone! Bones now!"

* * *

**A/N: **Oh my gosh, look at that. So much longer than I expected, but this is my first time writing in this genre, I think had too much fun with it :D

Again, this is just the PROLOGUE. The real fun starts in the next chapter, with newly escaped Alfred meeting fugitive!Arthur, more evil queen and magic and fairies and robbing and a really weird take on the special relationship, and— Yeah. Weird stuff.

Hope you enjoyed reading just as much as I enjoyed writing it!

**TBC?**


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